His Shadow Friend
by madwriter223
Summary: The first time Walter saw him, he had been nothing more than a shadow. WARNINGS for descriptions of child-abuse and schizophrenia.


**His Shadow Friend**

The first time Walter saw him, he had been seven. At least he thinks he had been seven. The memory is fuzzy now, muddled by passed time and new memories. But some things he remembers clearly.

He remembers how mother, drunk and angry, had punched and kicked and clawed at him. He remembers being curled up on the floor, taking each hit with barely a whimper. And he remembers how the shadow in the corner of the kitchen moved.

The first time Walter saw him, he had been nothing more than a shadow.

The second time Walter saw him, he had been eight. He had been huddled on his bed, skin aching where mother's belt hit him, the pain burning along his back. He couldn't recall now what he had done to deserve that beating, but he remembered the pain. The memory of pain was clear to him.

Some time that night, a shadow had moved. It had moved, and at the very back of his mind Walter had heard a voice. It spoke of 'wrong' and 'unfair' and 'revenge'. Words that could be comfort, but that seemed more like a plan forming. And the shadow kept moving.

The second time Walter saw him, he had been barely more than a shadow and a whisper of a promise.

The third time Walter saw him, he had been nine. One of mother's friends had been grabbing at him, pulling at his clothes and hitting him in the face. His mother had stood in her doorway, smoking and uncaring as that fat bastard struck and struck him again.

Walter saw movement in the shadows again, but this time, the shadow took shape. It had two arms and two legs, and a head. Nothing more, just a shadow with shape, but it stepped forward, into the light. It had been hissing and growling lowly, coming closer and closer, until one of its arms shot forward and slid into Walter's chest.

And Walter's body started moving on its own, lashing out with a kick, and dislocating one of the man's knees.

Much later, when mother was done yelling and hitting, Walter sat in his room, and stared at the shadows and the shape he could see in it.

The third time Walter saw him, he had saved him. So Walter asked him to stay.

The time passed, and Walter grew. As he grew, his shadow friend grew also. With each day he was more pronounced, his edges clearer. His voice got louder too, but it still remained a growl. Each time they spoke, he sounded to Walter like an angry dog.

Or a bear. More like a bear.

His friend had no name then, but he didn't seem to mind too much. He liked Walter's name, so Walter let him borrow his body from time to time. It seemed only fair. Besides, his friend only took it when bad things were happening, and he always helped Walter escape.

Walter had asked only once if he could name his friend. But the shadow shook his head, and said it wasn't time yet. So Walter never asked again.

People kept screaming at him, demanding to know why he had done it, why had he attacked those two boys, why did he do those things, why wouldn't he answer? But Walter didn't know. His shadow friend had borrowed his body, and sometimes when that happened, Walter fell asleep. He didn't know what had happened. He didn't know why his knuckles hurt, why there was a small burn on his finger or why his mouth tasted like blood. He didn't know. So he kept quiet, and didn't speak a word.

And a few days later, when he was laying in his new bed in Charlton, his shadow friend appeared next to him, and told him what that Walter was safe now. That he had punished two evil stupid boys, and Walter didn't have to worry about being a whoreson anymore.

Walter was glad. Not about being safe, there wasn't such a thing as safe. But he had been worried his shadow friend wouldn't find him in this new place.

But his friend would never abandon him.

There was one doctor in Charlton that looked at Walter in a strange way. Like he was confused, or like he couldn't solve a puzzle. But Walter wasn't a puzzle, so he tried to ignore it. He sometimes asked weird questions too. Like did Walter ever see anything that wasn't really there. Or perhaps Walter heard voices that weren't there. i_You can tell me, son./i_

But those questions were silly. How could Walter see or hear something that wasn't there? If it wasn't there, wouldn't Walter not be able to see or hear anything?

When he asked his shadow friend about it, his friend had laughed and laughed. He wouldn't tell Walter what the joke was, but Walter didn't mind. It was silly even without knowing the punch-line.

Many years passed. Walter left Charlton, and found an apartment and a job. The apartment was old and dirty and didn't have much light, but that was just perfect for them. The more shadows there were, the bigger his friend got.

Walter enjoyed his job. He liked sewing, he liked creating things out of colorful fabric. He didn't like making women undergarments, but it was bearable. He liked his job, he really did.

His friend didn't though. He seemed to be becoming restless, edging away from one side of the room to the other and back again. He sometimes stared intently at the fabrics Walter handled, sometimes reaching out as if to touch, but he never did, jerking away at the last minute.

It worried Walter. He didn't want his only friend to be ill. He tried offering his friend to borrow his body and go have some fun, but he was always gently rebuffed. There wasn't any cause, any reason, his friend always said. He became for a reason, he claimed. He could find a new reason, if given time.

So Walter gave him the time. It's what friends did, right?

The name on the box was Kitty Genovese, unclaimed. The lady that had been murdered while many neighbors watched. She had ordered this dress a couple years ago, but in the last minute had decided she didn't want it anymore.

Spoiled and prissy. But she didn't deserve her death. None of the people Walter read about in the newspapers deserved their deaths. It was so very unfair.

But Walter remembered that dress. Remembered the shifting fabric, the beautiful clarity of white and black, never grey, always shifting. He opened the lid of the box, and slid the dress out, thumbing against the shifting pattern.

Beautiful. How could anyone not want you?

A shadow moved, and he heard a gasp.

"You found it." His shadow friend whispered. He took a few steps closer to Walter, and stared in reverence at the fabric. "You _found_ it."

Walter blinked at him, then looked back at the dress. Slowly, he folded it into a square, then bent the sharp edges inside, so that an oblong was formed. Similar to how a head was shaped.

"You found my face."

And Walter smiled.


End file.
